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A  QUEST  FOR  SONG 


Quest  for  Song 


By 


JOHN  KENDRICK  BANGS 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COM  PANT 
MDCCCCXf 


Copyright, 
BY  LITTLE,   BROWN,   AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights,  reserved 


WRITTEN  FOR  AND  DEDICATED  BY  THE  AUTHOR 
TO 

THE  MEMBERS  OF  THE  BOSTON  CITY  CLUB 

IN   COMMEMORATION  OF  THE  OPENING   AND   DEDICATION 

OF  THEIR   TEMPLE   OF  BROTHERHOOD,   DEVOTED 

TO    CONFIDENCE    AND    CHEER,    TO   LOVE 

AND   HOPE  AND   FAITH   IN   MAN, 

IN   FORWARD   PRESS  TO   MUTUAL   RESPECT   AND 

HELPFULNESS. 


A  QUEST   FOR   SONG 


H  ARGED  with  a  sudden  need  for  Song 

I  sought 
The  lofty  heights  whereon  the  Muses 

dwell 

In  search  of  aid  by  which  there  might  be  wrought 
A  lyric  worthy  of  my  theme,  to  tell 
In  numbers  fit,  and  in  melodious  strain, 
In  measures  that  should  seem  not  wholly  vain, 
The  story  true — the  story,  O  so  good!  — 
Of  roses  grown  in  soil  of  Brotherhood. 
I  clambered  up  the  steep  Parnassian  slope 
To  find  the  gracious  Muse  who  sings  of  Hope, 
And  Love,  and  Confidence  and  goodly  Cheer; 
Who  bids  us  face  the  future  Void  of  fear, 
And  like  the  Sons  of  Godlike  Builders  gone 
Lay  claim  to  laurels  equally  our  own. 
From  lower  slope  to  towering  height  I  sped, 
Nor  feared  the  thunders  crashing  overhead; 

[9] 


A   QUEST    FOR    SONG 


Through  floral  meads,  and  forests  deep  I  strayed ; 

O'er  rocky  crags  I  stumbled  undismayed, 

And  came  at  last  to  the  Olympian  spot 

Where  dwell  the  Muses  —  and  I  found  them  not  ! 

Not  any  sign  of  any  Muse  was  there. 

In  Jovian  halls,  in  garden-closes  fair, 

I  sought  and  sought  again,  and  vainly  sought 

Until  by  merest  chance  my  hearing  caught 

A  sound  as  of  one  weeping,  and  the  flow 

Of  tears  that  dripped  upon  some  pave  of  woe; 

And  in  a  grot  hard  by  the  Palace  Gates, 

Sport  of  Bellona  and  her  Warrior  Fates, 

Bent  'neath  the  weight  of  sorrow  vast,  was  she  ! 

My  Muse  of  Love,  and  Cheer,  and  Sympathy, 

A  Monument  of  Grief,  and  dull  Despair, 

Her  one-time  smiling  face  enveiled  in  care, 

Sate  like  a  rigid  cast,  in  stone  or  brass, 

As  from  the  immortal  hand  of  Phideas. 

[10] 


A   QUEST    FOR    SONG 


Shattered,  her  lyre  was  thrown  aside,  unstrung ; 
A  voiceless  thing,  as  though  for  aye  unsung 
Must  future  numbers  be :  as  if  the  earth 
Could  ne'er  resound  again  to  strains  of  mirth, 
To  strains  of  Cheer,  and  Confidence,  and  Love, 
And  Hope,  with  all  their  joyous  treasure-trove; 
To  silences  eternal  doomed.     Her  eye 
Spoke  helpless  hopelessness ;  and  as  the  sky 
In  spring-tide  freshness  pours  its  gifts  of  rain 
Upon  the  earth,  so  in  torrential  pain 
Her  tears  flowed  on  and  on,  as  endlessly 
As  had  they  tapped  the  sources  of  the  sea. 
I  paused  before  her,  hesitant  to  speak, 
Resolved  to  urge  no  claim  upon  her  woe, 
Nor  ask  the  aid  I'd  thither  gone  to  seek, 
But  silently  repair  to  scenes  below, 
My  quest  all  unfulfilled,  and  my  intent 
In  face  of  her  despair  now  wholly  spent; 


A   QUEST    FOR   SONG 


When  from  her  rigid  pose  she  slowly  turned 
And  fixed  upon  me  eyes  that  fairly  burned 
With  sorrow,  and  distress,  and  darkling  fear. 

"Why  art  thou  here?" 

She  murmured,  and  her  once  strong  voice  was  weak. 
"I  have  a  need  forSong — of  Confidence  and  Cheer. 
One  of  thy  thrilling  songs  of  Love  and  Hope," 

Quoth  I.     "A  trope 

To  sound  responsive  to  the  noblest  theme 
Of  which  a  Poet  true  can  fitly  dream  — 
Of  Man's  accomplishment  in  realms  of  good  — 
A  song,  O  Muse  of  mine,  of  Brotherhood  !  " 
"Prate  ye  of  Brotherhood,"  she  cried,  "in  days 
When  Man  in  bloody  lust  his  Brother  slays? 
Call  ye  for  Song  when  on  black  fields  of  war 

The  shotted  cannon  roar, 
And  God's  rich  handiwork  in  human  grain 
By  hands  all  flecked  with  human  blood  is  slain  ? 

[12] 


A   QUEST    FOR   SONG 


I  cannot  sing  when  'neath  yon  clouds  of  hate 
Man  slays  the  things  the  centuries  create, 
And  sends  to  ruin  red  in  frenzied  rage 

His  priceless  heritage ! 

No  songs  have  I !     There  lies  my  broken  lyre ; 
Quenched  by  the  sanguinary  flow  my  fire ; 
Nor  Cheer,  nor  Hope,  nor  Brotherhood  remains 
I  n  yon  black  fields  where  murderous  carnage  reigns. 
Look  thou  beneath  yon  lowering  cloud  and  see 
The  hideous  brand  of  Cain's  own  infamy  — 
The  Hell-born  offspring  of  a  murderous  hate  — 

Wrong  incarnate  — 
And  in  the  mask  of  Righteousness  this  Shame 

Demands  the  world's  acclaim  !  " 
"If  that  were  all,"  quoth  I,  "O  Muse  of  mine, 
My  heart,  aye  even  as  that  lyre  of  thine, 
Would  broken  be,  and  from  a  world  gone  mad 
I'd  flee  as  from  the  Devil's  accolade. 

['3] 


A   QUEST    FOR    SONG 


If  there  were  naught  but  War,  and  Death,  and  Woe, 
And  rivers  reeking  with  the  spumy  flow 
Of  young  veins  tapped  too  early  in  the  fray 
Of  some  grim  potentate's  black  lust  for  prey, 
Then  would  I  weep  e'en  as  thou  weepest  here  ; 
Then  would  I  fear  e'en  as  thou  knowest  fear, 

And  mute 

Forever  more  would  rest  both  lyre  and  lute, 
And  ne'er  again  would  song 

To  earth  belong. 
But — 'tis  not  all !    From  out  thy  grim  despond 

Look  thou  beyond. 

Follow  the  courses  of  the  sun,  my  Muse, 
Past  yonder  clouds  that  so  thy  soul  confuse — - 
Thy  glances  speed  across  the  crested  main  — 
The  sea  mankind  has  conquered  not  in  vain  — 
Until  a  long  low  line  of  silvery  mist, 
Backed  by  the  gray  of  rock,  and  sands  sun-kist, 

['4] 


A    QUEST    FOR   SONG 


From  out  the  emerald  tide  shall  rise  before 
Thy  vision,  like  the  smiling,  golden  shore 
Of  some  wave-girted  Paradise,  whose  gates 
God  hath  reopened  for  his  children  come 
Back  from  a  world  of  fiery  feuds  and  hates 
E'en  as  the  Prodigal  returneth  home, 

To  find  an  heritage 
He  shall  not  dissipate  in  frenzied  rage, 
Since  rage  is  not  within  his  heart,  but  Love, 
And  Brotherhood  with  all  its  treasure-trove. 

Look  thou ! " 

I  spoke  commandingly.     Meseemed  now 
To  hold  the  balance  poised  all  pregnant  with 
The  fate  of  Man  and  all  his  kin  and  kith. 
The  Muse  sighed  deeply  'mid  the  deafening  din 
Of  wild  Bellona  and  her  warrior  Fates, 
Mad  with  their  lust  for  suffering  and  sin, 
And  laughing  to  the  echo  of  their  mates 

['5] 


A    QUEST   FOR    SONG 


In  Wrath  and  Wastefulness  and  Ruin  dire, 
Urged  by  the  inward  spur  of  blind  desire. 
"What  seest  thou  ?  "  I  cried. 

"Forget  thy  pride 

In  ancient  splendors  and  in  truth  confess 
If  aught  thou  seest  takes  from  thy  distress." 
Her  streaming  eyes  she  lifted  from  the  scene 
Where  hovered  death  with  pestilential  mien, 
And  westward  gazed  o'er  many  leagues  of  space, 
Nor  any  hint  of  Hope  illumed  her  face, 
As  if  within  no  real  expectance  lay 
Of  aught  beyond  to  mitigate  dismay. 
So  listlessly  she  gazed  again  I  spake. 
"What  seest  thou  ?     O  Muse  of  mine,  awake  ! 
This  rigor  of  thy  woe  cast  off  and  say, 
Canst  thou  not  see  some  light,  tho'  far  away 
Still  light,  to  point  amid  thy  sufferings 
The  broad  high-road  to  sweeter,  fairer  things 

[16] 


A   QUEST   FOR   SONG 


Than  have  confronted  thee  upon  the  fields 
Where  Mars  exacts  his  sanguinary  yields  ? " 
She  rose,  and  with  her  trembling  hand  held  by 
Her  pallid  brow  to  shade  her  straining  eye 
She  gazed  intently  now,  and  seemed  to  find 
Some  solvent  of  the  woe  that  vexed  her  mind, 
And  from  its  grim  obsession  some  relief 
To  ease  the  direful  pressure  of  her  grief. 
As  if  in  answer  to  my  half-breathed  prayer 
Myself  I  gazed  and  God  had  summoned  there 
The  wonders  of  mirage  that  loomed  high 
And  sweeping  broadly  filled  the  western  sky. 
A  Temple  fair  to  see,  its  lordly  crest 
Reared  proudly  in  that  prospect  of  the  West, 
And  round  about  it  in  rich  masses  shone 
The  gorgeous  colors  of  the  smiling  sun; 
And  o'er  its  towering  walls  a  lustrous  flow 
Of  radiance,  of  pure  celestial  glow, 


A   QUEST    FOR   SONG 


Sped  from  the  source  of  light  itself  and  gave 
Them  of  its  flawless  beauty.      From  the  pave 
To  gleaming  cornice  shone  that  heavenly  light, 
No  robe  of  burning  Seraphim  more  white  — 
A  symbol  true  of  unflecked  Purity, 
And  Stateliness,  and  Grace,  and  Majesty. 
She  wanly  murmured,  "Yes  —  it  seemeth  good! 
WhatTempleis't?"    "The  Homeof  Brotherhood, 
O  Muse,"  quoth  I.     "Those  walls  of  gracious  line 
Hold  fast  within  their  pure  embrace  a  shrine 
Wherein  on  altars  high  a  goodly  clan, 
Their  inmost  souls  inspired  with  Faith  in  Man, 
On  Love,  and  Confidence,  and  Hope  intent, 
Each  single  soul  on  Helpful  Effort  bent, 
Their  sacrificial  service  pay, 

By  night,  by  day, 

To  Him  who  hath  designed  this  world  to  be 
Itself  a  Temple  of  pure  Liberty. 

[i  8] 


A   QUEST   FOR   SONG 


The  gods  of  Selfishness,  and  pompous  Pride, 

Are  set  aside. 

They  seek  the  Good,  the  Right,  the  Just,  the  True, 
And  hold  to  Conscience  in  the  deeds  they  do. 
1 1  am!    I  know  !    I  ought !    I  can  I    I  will!  ' 
That  is  the  motto  of  the  clan.     Where  ill 
Would  sound  its  note  intrusively  the  call 
To  action  finds  them  standing,  one  and  all, 
Athwart  her  path,  united  in  a  mass 
Of  human  steel  no  martial  woe  can  pass." 
"A  race  of  gods  ?"  she  cried.     I  answered  then, 
"Not  so,  dear  Muse — a  new-born  race  of  men  !  " 
"But  whence — whence  have  they  come  ?"  cried  she. 

"Mortals  they  cannot  be  !  " 
"Mortals,"  quoth  I,  "to  human  passions  prey, 
To  human  weaknesses  all  prone  are  they, 
But  since  to  sacrifice  each  soul's  inclined 
Ta'en  in  the  mass  of  somewhat  godlike  kind. 

['9] 


A    QUEST    FOR   SONG 


Nurtured  on  toil ;  tried  in  the  fires  of  life ; 
Tested  by  pain  ;  scarred  by  the  shafts  of  strife ; 
Proved  by  the  stress  of  years  in  labor  passed, 

Cometh  the  new-born  caste  — 
Sons  of  the  world,  sons  of  the  East  and  West, 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  least,  the  mightiest. 
Thou  askest  whence  they  come.    Turn  once  again 
To  those  dark  fields  of  carnage  and  of  pain. 
In  conflict  there,  spurred  by  titanic  rage, 
Thou  seest  warriors  fierce,  in  youth,  in  age, 

Of  many  diverse  strains — 

Sons  of  the  fertile  plains 

Of  smiling  France,  of  Languedoc,  Auvergne, 
Artois,  Anjou,  Gascogne,  Navarre-et-Bearn  — 

Alas,  from  all 

The  lovely  Provinces  of  modern  Gaul; 
Sons  of  the  Russian  sweeps — of  Astrakhan; 
Scions  of  Moscow,  Kiev,  and  Ryazan; 

[20] 


A   QUEST   FOR   SONG 


Children  of  Novgorod,  of  Poland  sad 
Bent  to  the  warlike  will  of  Petrograd. 
There  march  the  Two-Faced  Eagles,  martial  sons 
From  valleys  fair  through  which  the  Danube  runs, 
Bred  to  a  Hapsburg  service  —  hearts  of  song 
Turned  from  their  singing  unto  deeds  of  wrong. 
There  in  the  vanguard  of  the  fighting  line, 
In  solid  phalanx  massed,  sons  of  the  Rhine, 
Sons  of  the  Vosges  heights,  of  Weser's  vales, 
Sons  of  the  Bodensee's  soft  nooks  and  dales, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  march  with  Prussia's  youth — 

In  sad,  sad  truth 

The  flowering  strain 

Of  haughty  Allemagne. 

And  Britain's  sons  are  there,  and  Belgium's  men, 
Placing  false  confidence  in  stroke  of  pen, 
Despoiled,  embroiled,  in  dreadful  deeds  of  rue 
Surpassing  Carthage,  Troy,  or  Waterloo  — 

[21] 


A    QUEST    FOR    SONG 


All,  all  are  blent  in  that  most  hideous  blare 
Of  Carnage,  Murder,  Fratricide,  Despair!" 
"No  need  have  I,"  she  sighed,  "to  look  again 
Upon  those  dreadful  scenes,  so  dark,  so  vain. 
Too  well  I  know  what  direful  fate  befell 
To  turn  our  well-loved  Europe  into  Hell. 
I  asked  thee  not  of  them  —  those  errant  sons 
From  Britain,  Gaul,  and  Allemagne,  and  Russe, 
Who've  let  these  hounds  of  black  Bellona  loose, 
And  like  the  herds  of  Attila,  the  Huns, 
Now  scar  God's  fields  as  with  a  fiery  scourge, 
And  from  their  veins  pour  forth  a  tidal  surge 
That's  like  to  turn  the  dark  blue  of  the  sea 
Into  a  carmine  pool  of  infamy! 

Of  them  I  ask  thee  naught  — 
But  whence,  and  how  was  wrought 
And  of  what  stuff  this  race  of  Supermen 
Thou  bringest  to  my  ken, 

[22] 


A   QUEST    FOR   SONG 


Whose  hope  in  goodly  service  lies,  and  who 
Have  bent  their  Will  to  make  that  hoping  true." 
"Not  Supermen,"  I  made  reply,  "are  they, 
But  mortal  beings,  wrought  of  mortal  clay, 
And  I  will  whisper  to  thee  whence  they  came: 
From  these  afflicted  lands  all  drenched  in  shame 

Came  they — aye,  one  and  all, — 
From  Russia,  Prussia,  Britain  and  from  Gaul! 
The  self-same  racial  loins  that  gat  this  crew 
Of  broiling  fighters  gat  these  others  too!" 
"But,"  cried  the  Muse,  "how  hath  it  come  to  be 
These  self-same  sons  of  self-same  ancestry 
So  different  are  that  these  are  filled  with  hate 
Whilst  in  these  others'  souls  joy  reigns,  elate? 
How  can  it  be  that  here  in  mad  affray 
They  meet  upon  the  battle-fields  to  slay, 
Whilst  there  we  see  them  in  a  forward  press 
To  mutual  respect  and  helpfulness  — 

[23] 


A    QUEST    FOR   SONG 


Are  they  more  wise?" 

"Not  so,"  quoth  I.     "But  freer  are  the  skies 
'Neath  which  they  dwell.     Mad  jealousy,  and  hate, 
The  which  doth  leave  the  Nations  desolate 
To  yield  a  woe  the  centuries  to  be 
Cannot  atone  for  to  eternity, 
They  know  not,  since  their  call  is  not  to  fight 
But  in  the  name  of  Freedom  to  UNITE. 
Their  souls  are  not  hemmed  in  by  boundaries. 
Their  acreage  is  girted  by  the  seas— 
The  oceans  vast,  the  eastern  and  the  west; 
A  human  tide  between  that  seeks  the  best; 
A  stretch  of  continental  width  that  thrills 
With  life  all  unconfined:  rich  fields,  and  hills, 
And  rivers,  cities,  yielding  to  their  toil 

Their  noblest  spoil: 

And  o'er  their  heads  the  heavens  own  blue  sea 
Lit  by  the  glorious  fires  of  Liberty; 

04] 


A   QUEST    FOR   SONG 


And  for  each  one 

His  place,  and  space,  where  glows  the  radiant  sun. 
No  dread  is  theirs  that  racial  difference, 
And  growth  too  full,  as  causes  of  offense 
Shall  bring  to  ruin  the  well-garnered  grain 
Of  years  of  toilsome  effort  and  of  pain. 
Each  knows  that  as  HE  grows  so  grows  the  State 
To  which  his  efforts  best  are  dedicate, 
And  if  he  seek  for  power  'tis  power  to  be 
Himself  the  Master  of  his  Destiny." 
Scarce  had  I  finished  when  the  fair  Muse  sprang 
Forth  from  her  woe.    Her  lyre  she  seized,  and  sang 
No  song  of  idle  joy,  no  lilting  trope 

Of  Cheer  and  Hope, 

But  all  the  air 
Waxed  vibrant  with  an  humble  song  of  prayer. 


A   QUEST   FOR   SONG 


O  God  who  in  the  Heavens  high  dost  rule  the  Heart 

of  Man 

Look  Thou  with  favor  in  Thine  eye  upon  this  noble  clan; 
Confirm  them  in  their  Brotherhood ;  encompass  them 

with  might 
When  III  would  overbalance  Good  to  battle  for  the 

Right  — 

To  battle  for  the  Right,  Lord  God, 
To  battle  for  the  Right, 
And  from  the  dark  of  hatred  stark  to  lead  the  blind 

to  Light ! 

Gird  Thou  their  loins  with  Righteousness,  and  hold 

them  to  the  True ; 

And  when  the  hosts  of  Evil  press  their  evil  deeds  to  do 
Be  Thou  beside  them  in  the  fray  to  hold  their  spirits  free 
Of  any  fear  or  dread  dismay  of  that  which  is  to  be — 
Of  that  which  is  to  be,  Lord  God, 

[26] 


A   QUEST   FOR   SONG 


Of  that  which  is  to  be  — 
Be  it  Thy  Will  that  naught  of  ill  shall  hold  the  Victory. 

Hold  them  forever  to  the  Faith  that  welds  them 

each  to  each, 
Lest  it  shall  seem  a  spectral  wraith  beyond  their 

mortal  reach ; 
And  give  the  Confidence  we  see  that  makes  them  One 

today 

The  substance  of  Reality ,  an  heritage  for  aye  — 
An  heritage  for  aye,  Lord  God, 
An  heritage  for  aye, 
That  all  the  aeons  yet  to  be  can  never  take  away. 

O  keep  them  watchful  of  their  Trust,  that  on  each 

passing  morn 
Out  of  Life's  turmoil  and  its  dust  their  Love  may 

rise  new-born ; 


A   QUEST    FOR    SONG 


And  grant  their  sacrifices,  Lord, Thy  generous  increase 
In  allThygodliest  reward  of  Hope  and  perfect  Peace — 

Such  Hope  and  perfect  Peace ,  Lord  God, 

Such  Hope  and  perfect  Peace 

That  from  the  face  of  Earth  all  trace  of  Wars  shall 
ever  cease. 

'Twas  thus  she  sang,  and  as  her  swelling  throat 

Poured  musically  forth  its  mellow  note 

The  woodland  deep  and  all  the  hillsides  there 

Re-echoed  to  her  prayer; 

And  from  the  towering  height,  and  lowliest  fen, 
There  burst  upon  mine  ear  a  vast  AMEN 
Of  such  majestic,  overwhelming,  tone 
Methought  'twas  from  the  Hosts  beside  God's 

throne ; 

And  this,  by  soft  diminuendos,  soon 
Shrank  to  a  distant  croon, 

[28] 


A   QUEST   FOR   SONG 


And  faded  into  silence.     All  was  still — 
And  then,  from  every  side;  from  dale  and  hill, 
Blending  of  Angel's  note,  and  tones  of  bird, 
In  one  grand  choral  voice  again  I  heard  — 

My  Country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  Land  of  Liberty ', 

Of  thee  I  sing. 

Land  where  my  Fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  Pilgrim's  pride. 
From  every  mountain-side 

Let  freedom  ring. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  sing  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  Freedom  s  song. 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake ; 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake ; 

09] 


A   QUEST    FOR   SONG 


M«'r  silence  break, 
The  sound  prolong. 


Our  Fathers'  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  Liberty, 

To  Thee  we  sing. 
Long  may  our  Land  be  bright 
With  Freedom  s  holy  light  — 
Protect  us  by  Thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King. 


[30] 


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